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Page 33
"It was a great victory," concluded the eloquent narrator. "The young
conqueror did not sleep a wink that night. Until the morning light he
was on the quarter-deck of the Lawrence, doing what he could to relieve
his suffering comrades, while the stifled groans of the wounded men
echoed from ship to ship. The next day the dead, both the British and
the American, were buried in a wild and solitary spot on the shore. And
there they sleep the sleep of the brave, with the sullen waves to sing
their perpetual requiem."
We sat in silence a long time after; no one was disposed to speak. It
came to us with power there on the moonlit lake, a realization of the
hard-fought battle, the gallant bearing of the young commander, his
daring passage in an open boat through the enemy's fire to the Niagara,
the motto on his flag, the manner in which he carried his vessel alone
through the enemy's line, and then closed in half pistol-shot, his
laconic account of the victory to his superior officer, the ships
stripped of their spars and canvas, the groans of the wounded, and the
mournful spectacle of the burial on the lake shore.
Our next stopping-place was at Detroit, the metropolis of Michigan, on
the river of the same name, the colony of the old Frenchman De la Mothe
Cadillac, the colonial Pontchartrain, the scene of Pontiac's defeat and
of Hull's treachery, cowardice, or incapacity, grandly seated on the
green Michigan shore, overlooking the best harbor on the Great Lakes,
and with a population of more than one hundred thousand. Two stormy days
kept us within doors most of the time. The third day we were again "on
board," steaming up Detroit River into Lake St. Clair. On and on we
kept, till the green waters of Huron sparkled beneath the keel of our
steamer. All the way over the lake we kept the shores of Michigan in
sight, beaches of white sand alternating with others of limestone
shingle, and the forests behind, a tangled growth of cedar, fir, and
spruce in impenetrable swamps, or a scanty, scrubby growth upon a sandy
soil. Two hours were spent at Thunder Bay, where the steamer stopped for
a supply of wood, and we went steaming on toward Mackinaw, a hundred
miles away. At sunset of that day the shores of the green rocky island
dawned upon us. The steamer swept up to an excellent dock, as the
sinking sun was pouring a stream of molten gold across the flood, out of
the amber gates of the west.
"At last Mackinaw, great in history and story," announced the Historian
leaning on the taffrail and gazing at the clear pebbly bottom and
through forty feet of water.
"My history consists of a series of statues and tableaux--statues of the
great men, tableaux of the great events," said Vincent. "Were there any
such at Mackinaw?"
"Yes," answered Hugh, "two statues and one tableau--the former Marquette
and Mae-che-ne-mock-qua, the latter the massacre at Fort
Michilimakinack."
"The event happened during Pontiac's war, I believe," I hastened to
observe. "The Indians took the place by stratagem, did they not?"
"They did. It was on the fourth of July, 1763. The fort contained a
hundred soldiers under the command of Major Etherington. In the
neighborhood were four hundred Indians apparently friendly. On the day
specified the savages played a great game of ball or baggatiway on the
parade before the fort. Many of the soldiers went out to witness it and
the gate was left open. During the game the ball was many times pitched
over the pickets of the fort. Instantly it was followed by the whole
body of players, in the unrestrained pursuit of a rude athletic
exercise. The garrison feared nothing; but suddenly the Indians drawing
their concealed weapons began the massacre. No resistance was offered,
so sudden and unexpected was the surprise. Seventy of the soldiers were
murdered, the remainder were sold for slaves. Only one Englishman
escaped. He was a trader named Henry. He was in his own house writing a
letter to his Montreal friends by the canoe which was just on the eve of
departure, when the massacre began. Only a low board fence separated his
grounds from those of M. Longlade, a Frenchman, who had great influence
with the savages. He obtained entrance into the house, where he was
concealed by one of the women, and though the savages made vigorous
search for him, he remained undiscovered. You can imagine the horrible
sight the fort presented when the sun went down, the soldiers in their
red uniforms lying there scalped and mangled, a ghastly heap under the
summer sky. And to just think it was only a short time ago, a little
more than a hundred years."
We could hardly realize it as we gazed up the rocky eminence at the
United States fort, one hundred and fifty feet high, overlooking the
little village. And yet Mackinaw's history is very little different from
that of most Western settlements and military Stations. Dark,
sanguinary, and bloody tragedies were constantly enacted upon the
frontiers for generations. As every one acquainted with our history must
know, the war on the border has been an almost interminable one. As the
tide of emigration has rolled westward it has ever met that fiery
counter-surge, and only overcome it by incessant battling and effort.
And even now, as the distant shores of the Pacific are wellnigh reached,
that resisting wave still gives forth its lurid flashes of conflict.
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